I am caught between the sun and moon.
Between the sun of Troy and Achilles
and the moon of ‘Are you cold, love,
are your veins flowing steadier and heavier?’
The sun above the bull in the bleeding
arena, the moon of the midsummer night’s dream.
The sun above the contentious banners
the chanted slogans, the barricades.
The moon of the stagnant water
of the stock-still peeking pike
that notices most animals are asleep
but can do nothing else
than lie there with tensed muscles
in its hideaway; its eyes are
slowly rolling into an endless stare
and see nothing else.
in this unrippled, silver-green world
prey as slow as a vitreous body
swims into view and wonders whether
this danger is imaginary or true.